Repetitions in A Minor
by splashdown
Summary: Harry is cold and untouchable until a secret song warms his heart. HarryGinny oneshot.


**Repetitions in A Minor  
**

**i.** It is raining. It is the day Harry is embarking on his long and winding journey, and it is raining. It is the day Harry finally leaves Privet Drive, never again to return during summer holidays, never again to see the horrid puce color of his Uncle's face, and it is raining.

Harry grimaces as he struggles to lift his trunk upright. It is too full, way too full and large and heavy for someone who is trying to be inconspicuous. Today is not turning out to be the happiest day of his life, as he had always thought. His trunk is too full and too heavy and too large, and it is raining.

He flops himself onto his bed and looks around the room one last time, checking to make sure he has everything. The room is empty, which isn't too much of a difference from how it is when he occupies it, though it suddenly feels even more cold than normal. He turns his attention to the window, the rain splatting down the outside of the glass, falling to the earth in a hurry.

He wonders if that is a sign of what is to come. He almost welcomes it to be.

He sighs, stands up, and grabs Hedwig's cage. He moves over to his trunk, takes hold, and lifts his wand. Soon he is gone.

His journey has begun, and it is raining.

**ii.** "Oh, Harry darling, it is so good to see you. You must be hungry. Come. Sit, sit." Mrs. Weasley looks thinner than ever. Her hair is turning slightly gray. Harry feels the sudden urge to recoil, to run far away and never come back. He is worried why he thinks this way. It must be the rain.

He follows her to the table and does as he is told. She places plate upon plate piled high with food in front of him. He eats, almost mechanically. Pile, lift, open, chew, swallow. Rinse. Repeat.

Mrs. Weasley moves to the sink. He can feel her eyes upon him, but he won't look. He knows he has changed. He knows he is different. He is more sharp around the edges, more hardened. He has to be. He has to fight.

Harry glances out the window. The sky is gray and darkened. It must be the rain.

**iii.** He thinks of Dumbledore often, almost as much as he thinks of her. He tries to push the feelings out of his mind, out of his heart, but she always finds a way back in. She is like magic; she is magic. Sometimes, when he lies awake at night, he wonders if he would have made the same choice if Dumbledore hadn't died. He wonders what would be different. He wonders if his heart would feel so cold.

Harry is thinking of her now, as he sits outside. It is raining, and he is soaking. His scar is burning; it is on fire; he feels like he is about to explode. He wishes he would. He puts his face in his hands. He is tired, and his heart is cold. He doesn't realize he is shivering.

"Harry, you daft plonker, come inside before you freeze!" She has found him. He won't look at her. He won't look at her. Harry pushes his forehead harder into the palms of his hands. He won't look at her.

He knows she is still standing in the doorway, staring at him. He probably looks a fool, sitting outside in only a t-shirt in the middle of the pouring rain. He shrugs and lifts himself off the ground. He is covered in mud. He doesn't care.

Harry walks straight by her, their bodies centimeters apart. He can feel the heat radiating off of her. He won't look at her. He takes the towel that Ron hands him and makes an attempt at smiling toward Hermione. He wipes his glasses off and throws the towel around his shoulders.

He wonders what Dumbledore would say to him, if he was there. If he was anywhere at all.

He wonders what she would.

But he won't look at her.

**iv.** He hears them whispering. It is late. He has crept downstairs to sit by the fire. Mrs. Weasley let him have his own room. It is lonely, being by himself, not sharing a bedroom with Ron. He almost wishes he wasn't even there at all.

"Something is terribly wrong with him."  
"I tried asking him earlier, Hermione, but he wouldn't say anything."  
"The way that he looks at us now.."

It is silent, and he can hear the fire crackling. He peaks quietly from around the wall. Their faces are illuminated. He watches as Ron's hand strokes Hermione's hair, his free hand entangled in hers. Harry wonders when that happened, but he is relieved it has.

Suddenly she talks. He didn't see her down there, though he doesn't know how he couldn't. His eyes snap onto her body, wrapped up in a blanket, her hair the color of the embers blazing in the hearth.

"He won't even look at me," she says, her amber eyes saddening in the darkness.

_I am looking at you now,_ he thinks.

But he would never tell her that. She would never understand.

**v.** He wakes in the middle of the night to music. It is a soft, wistful melody, yet he can feel his heart begin to beat faster because of it. He feels less alone, less callous. Harry glances out the window. It is raining. He sits up and reaches for his glasses.

"You can hear it, too, then?" she whispers.

He flinches, then freezes. His breath catches in his throat. She is in his room. She is standing just inside the doorway, but he can feel her all the way across the room.

He clears his throat, then nods. He focuses hard on his hands. He won't look at her. The song grows louder.

"So this is how it's going to be, is it?" she asks him, taking one step closer. "You're just going to ignore my existance?"

He gulps, feeling his body heat up in embarrassment, in shame, in fervor.

"Look at me, Harry." His stare remains on his hands. "Look at me." He won't look at her. "What has happened to you, Harry? You were fine, only a few weeks ago. What has happened to you?"

He says nothing. The room goes still as the music pours on. He looks at his hands. He won't look at her. She wouldn't understand.

It is raining, though he can't hear the raindrops falling anymore. The melodic song is growing louder. Harry knows he's heard this song before.

He wonders what Dumbledore would say to him, if he was there. If he was anywhere at all. Harry wonders, but he already knows.

And so he speaks. "Nothing. I mean, nothing has happened." He stops, clears his throat, stares at his hands. She moves forward another step but stays silent. He closes his eyes. He won't look at her.

"But Ha--"

"Nothing has happened, Ginny." He says her name. It tastes strange on his tongue, his lips. He hasn't said it in awhile, though he has thought it. He says it again. "Ginny." And now he can't stop; the words just keep coming. "Ginny, nothing has happened. But, but everything has happened. I, I can't sleep and I can't turn my brain off; it just keeps thinking and turning and repeating, it's always repeating, and I can't stop it." He stops and takes in a breath. He doesn't realize he is shivering.

She takes a step closer. "What do you think about?" she asks him, barely above a whisper.

He almost doesn't hear it. The woeful tune is still getting louder. He wonders what it is and where it's coming from and why no one else is awake. He wonders why it sounds so familiar. He wonders where he's heard it before.

"I," he pauses. Takes a breath. Continues. "My parents. Dumbledore. Voldemort." She shudders and inhales quickly. "You."

"Me?"

"In fact, most of the time it's you. It's always you and I can't stop it from being you and I don't want to stop it but it has to stop because I can't, I can't let it be you, I can't let it be y--"

"Why can't you let it be me, Harry?" She's almost to his bed. Just a few steps away.

He won't look at her.

The song is almost deafening.

He speaks with more force. "Because if it's you, then you're dead, just like my parents, just like Sirius, just like Dumbledore. It can't be you because I, er, because yeah, and my brain won't stop and it's cold and I'm cold and, and.." Harry sputters to a stop. He is panting. He doesn't realize he is shivering.

Ginny is by his side now. He won't look at her.

She grabs his face with her hands. Harry loves her hands, her small, pale, freckled hands that fit perfectly inside his own.

He won't look at her.

She forces his head up and stares straight at him. He won't look at her, but he can feel her stare burning holes into his eyes. It is burning, and he is no longer cold, and he can't hear anything except for the song.

"Open your eyes, Harry."

He won't look at her.

"Open your eyes."

He won't look at her.

"Harry," she says softly. It is suddenly quiet. He wonders why it is suddenly quiet. He wonders where the music went.

He opens his eyes. He watches as a tear falls down her cheek. She doesn't wipe at it. He watches as her eyes lift to his forehead, to his scar. He watches as she leans in closer and closer and he can smell her and she smells like lilies. He closes his eyes as her lips press softly upon his scar. He breathes deep, lets the lilies flow through his nose and into his body.

"I can't promise you that I'm not going anywhere, Harry. But I can promise you that no matter what happens, no matter where I go, you will always be with me."

He realizes he is shivering. He wraps his arms around her waist and he pulls her to him. He wants to be warm and he wants to be warm and he wants to be warm and he is warm.

A bright light flashes above their heads as a single, bright red flower floats softly in the air. Ginny reaches up and lightly grabs it. She holds it up for both of them to see. "Fawkes?" she questions quietly.

He smiles into her hair, and it's the first real smile that's crossed his face in weeks. He turns his face toward the window, the sky outside lighting as the day begins.

"Hey," he says. "It's stopped raining."


End file.
